


Common Tongue

by kiyyeisanerd



Category: Homestuck
Genre: (well kinda), Also because i decided post-apocalyptic novels dont have enough kinky magic sex in them, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Butt Plugs, Cinematic References & Allusions, Come Inflation, Dinosaurs, Dirk Has Magic Synesthesia, Esperanto But Magic?????, I only wrote this fic so i could use hozier lyrics as chapter titles, Injury, Kinky Escapades, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Marathon Sex, Object Penetration, Plant sex, Restraints, Scansion, Sex Magic, Unruly Firearms, childhood flashbacks, pretentious bullshit, strange powers, tombs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-06-29 21:15:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19838632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiyyeisanerd/pseuds/kiyyeisanerd
Summary: Dirk Strider is a trust-funded Classics major with angelic blonde hair who couldn't top a guy if his life depended on it. The planet earth has been through an unexpected apocalypse. Also, magic exists.Amidst the wreckage of the world, Dirk tries to meet up with his cousin. On the way he encounters a suspicious young man with a lot of magical know-how and an absolutely gorgeous physique. How is he supposed to traverse the post-apoalyptic landscape with this hot stud accosting him every five minutes? Life is hard when everyone else is dead.





	1. God Looks On In Abject Apathy

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my latest dirkjake fic project! I started writing this mid-last year and did a good bit of worldbuilding work on it, but I haven't gotten very far past the first few chapters. The inspiration for the fic was Hozier's song Moment's Silence off of his new album. Also, I got really heated one night because I hate how trope-ish the post-apocalyptic genre has become, so I set off to write a post-apocalyptic world that was NOT dreary, NOT full of zombies, and INDEED full of weird sex. 
> 
> So I'll be very up front with you: there are about two ways this fic could go.  
> A) I may abandon it entirely and write other things because I am a busy and fickle man  
> B) I'm taking a shitload of Renaissance/art history classes next year at uni, so I may have a sudden burst of inspiration to come back to this Dirk
> 
> Anyway, drop a comment if you're genuinely interested in more! I have the first two chapters queued up, but the rest is as of yet unwritten. Happy reading!

_And it was during the 1300s in Florence, Italy that the intellectual structures precursing our modern magic systems were first established. A renewed interest in Aristotle’s five elements, especially his philosophical “aether,” and a broadening, intensive educational focus on greco-roman texts during this era led to the formation of novel arcane theories; this shift effectively marked the beginning of the Arcane Renaissance, and thusly, the creation of arcane disciplines._

_Of course, the idea of magical “schools” was no more foreign at the time than the idea of “schools” of thought; magic had been studied through a myriad of clearly defined lenses before the Renaissance, no doubt. But with regional secular princes seeking autonomy from the stranglehold of the papacy, which hardly tolerated the study of deviant or foreign magical techniques, a growing assortment of peoples were pushing for educational reform in the arcane fields. With reform came clearer categories._

_Reformers at the heart of Italy were creating new curriculums for mundane studies far before magical teaching was revolutionized. A group known as the_ Humanists _promoted classicism, spurring a revived interest in Greek rhetorical devices. Contrary to the Church’s contemporaneous teachings, scholarly Humanists advocated for a secular lifestyle, revering the pagan myths of the Aegeans and focusing on the individual rather than the congregation. They still followed Christian doctrine prevalent at the time, but they encouraged studies outside of Christendom._

_Inspired by the teachings of the Humanists, a new generation of Florentine mages sought to divide magic into a number of “disciplines.” These were not academic fields as we consider them today, but were instead broad categories describing different magical faculties, used to better communicate when discussing complex topics such as art, history, and human emotion._

_The first magical disciplines were known as_ Heart, Mind, _and_ Soul, _the latter of which was_ _more often called_ Speranza _or_ Esperanza _, respectively the Italian and Spanish words for “hope.”_ Heart _is a bit of a misnomer—named in honor of Aristotle, who believed the heart to be the most important organ in the body, it focused on human identity, experience, and capability. Some of the earliest European magical historians fell under the discipline of_ Heart _, as they studied the human experience over the course of history (this particular sect of the discipline eventually merged with the later_ Mind _-inspired field of_ Magiphysics _to form our modern discipline of_ Quantum Studies _). Those studying_ Heart _might be found testing their own magical limits, documenting and classifying sources of personal magic, and delving into the earliest academic forms of self-augmentation._

_Followers of the_ Mind _discipline were, by contrast, interested in the arcane nature of the grand universe, unconcerned with individual identity outside of how it related to the cosmic interconnectedness of the world. Students of this discipline could be found investigating the first evidence of multiplanar levels, researching probability, and refining the art of prophecy (_ Mind _’s highly driven prophets eventually formed their own discipline known as_ Light _, the foundation for our modern_ Prophetic Studies _)._

Esperanza _was inarguably the most elusive and nonsensical of the founding magic disciplines. It could be described as a cross between magic and art, a child of Renaissance artists’ fascination with antique realism. It strove to take fantastical things—thoughts, dreams, painted creatures and impossible inventions—and make them real through the power of persistence and imagination. This was the most controversial of the founding disciplines, and yet it was undoubtedly the most alluring—and the most dangerous._

_Parts of these disciplines have carried on to the present day._ Heart _survives in our studies of_ Arcane Identities _and_ Arcane Psychology _,_ Mind _survives in our disciplines of_ Interplanar Studies _and_ Arcane Statistics _, and_ Soul _has split off to form part of our_ Necromantic Studies, Vivimantic Studies, Imaginative Studies, Antimatter Studies, _and our schools of_ Transfiguration, Translocation, _and_ Transmodification.

_The disciplines we study today, however, are not as free-flowing as the broad categories first invented in Florence. Magic entered a long era of development after the Renaissance, but progress did not stay forever linear. Modern magical studies are controlled by..._

You close your book and set it aside, rubbing your eyes. You’ve already read Hus’s “ _A History of Magic_ ” cover to cover upwards of ten times, but you’re the kind of person who re-reads the same books over and over as a coping mechanism. Nothing staves off a constantly encroaching sense of existential dread like a good history textbook.

Your cousin would say it’s “just like you” to find comfort in “boring academic shit.” Oh well. You take what comfort you can get in this hellscape.

To his credit, Hus has quite a way with words. You are, of course, referring not to prominent 14th century reformer Jan Hus, philosophical precursor to more famous Protestant theologians, but to renowned modern author Andrew Hussie, known for his lengthy and comprehensive historical texts.

Let’s get this straight. It’s a _very_ good book that he’s written. Or maybe you’re just a slut for history, who knows. You remember other students back in uni falling asleep trying to get through the veritable epic of recapitulation that sits beside you, but you guess you’re just a nerd ass loser or something. What can you say? Arcane evolution is titillating.

Your obsession with schoolwork is both a blessing and a curse. At this point you are well versed in at least five disciplines of magic, and you hold two advanced degrees. However, you only have one friend.

One _close_ friend at least. Back in university you used to talk to some people after classes, but between your work and your studies and your myriad of personal projects, free time was always scarce.

Now, you find yourself in practically the opposite situation. Plenty of free time, but nobody to talk to. Except Roxy.

timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering tipsyGnostalgic [TG]

TT: Hey. Any progress updates?  
TG: idk what you mean by progress dirky  
TG: like noah fence but its a 12 mi walk from my house to yours  
TG: so its gonna be a couple hours  
TG: and by a couple hours i mean like 4 hours maybe 5  
TT: I just mean, like.  
TT: Are you walking.  
TT: Have you started the journey.  
TT: Are you leaving the normal world behind, soon to be aided by a mysterious, possibly elderly magical guide.  
TG: blah blah  
TG: can u not reference a literary trope for once jeezus  
TG: but yea   
TG: im on my way i got my lil travelers pack and shiz  
TG: lookin like some kind of cute hitchhiker chick with a sack over my shoulcer bein all like  
TG: *whistle whistel*  
TG: look at me skippin down the street in my tattered dress  
TG: witness my childish charm ;)  
TG: *shoulder  
TG: *whistle  
TT: Please don’t tell me you’re trying to navigate a post-apocalyptic landscape drunk.  
TG: oh my godddsss im not drunk i just catn type while im walkin dirk  
TG: its ur fault for makin me use this shitty outdated app  
TG: i cant even use thought 2 text!  
TG: my fingers are gettin a fuckin workout  
TG: also hey uh  
TG: speakin of post apocalyptic landscapes  
TG: thats strong language  
TG: what r u   
TG: the authorities on whats considered an apocalypse or not?  
TT: First of all, this outdated app is one of the only wireless messaging systems still up and running, thank you very much.   
TT: You’re lucky we had it downloaded.  
TT: Second of all, yeah, I think at this point the concept of “authority” is pretty irrelevant since society has completely collapsed, so as a guy with free will and a wealth of life experience I’m going to go ahead and say this is definitely considered an apocalypse.  
TT: Or a post-apocalypse.  
TT: The apocalypse part already happened.  
TT: Forgive my verbiage.  
TG: someones a debby downer  
TG: have u been reading one of your “history of boring dead idiot old people” books?  
TT: Maybe.  
TG: hahahaha called itttttt  
TG: i know u too well  
TG: anyway  
TG: im gonna focus on walkin and making sure no post apocalyptic bandits jump me  
TG: try not to be all anxious ok  
TG: relax a lil  
TG: light one of ur weird magic sex candles  
TT: They’re still not sex candles.  
TT: But okay yeah.  
TT: Thanks for the advice, oh wise one.  
TG: ur welcum ;)  
TG: see ya soon strider  
TT: See you soon.

timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering tipsyGnostalgic [TG]

You close your phone and slip it back into the pocket of your sweatpants. You’re trying your best not to be impatient but goddammit, it’s been nearly a month now since this whole fiasco started and you’re starved for human contact. Your cousin has been less than accommodating. She’s getting her shit together at a tortoise's pace for the sake of “caution” and “long term prosperity,” which are great priorities to have but… speed is important to you right now.

The sky is turning a sickly green outside your window. You lay back on your floor and groan.

Living in the aftermath of the apocalypse isn’t what you thought it would be. Not that you ever spent significant amounts of times considering prospective apocalyptic scenarios—you’re not _that_ edgy—but you did take a university course called “Death and Dying,” so you had your ideas from that, and not to mention the various demonology courses required for your Arcane Renaissance minor. You were at least expecting some horsemen, or some meteors, or an alien invasion, or the literal biblical rapture. Even the natural breakdown of the ecosystem due to man’s irresponsible use of fossil fuels would have made more sense than this.

You really have no right to be complaining, considering you survived. You wish you had some statistics to look at, or even just a hard number of how many humans are alive right now, but the internet is kind of fucked. The U.S. made a nationwide switch from plain electricity to arcane generators a couple decades ago, so everything crashed when the Rain started. All magically powered technology—toast.

Not all of it, actually. You shouldn’t overgeneralize. But only a few generators were bolstered enough to withstand the crash. The infamous **Grand Generators** were thankfully some of the surviving machines, so the global Common Tongue is still speakable. You don’t know what you would’ve done, had you been stripped of your main mode of communication. At least you and Roxy both speak English, but your chances of finding other native speakers would be slim. And that would make this barely navigable hellhole of a planet even less traveler-friendly.

Gods, you hope Roxy makes it here soon. The journey from her house to yours is sure to be all kinds of difficult. Asking her to walk four hours across unknown, magically corrupted terrain gave you a major case of anxiety, but you both agreed your house would be a better hideout, and there’s safety in numbers. All you have to now do is sit and wait, but you can’t abate your worry. Four hours could not possibly pass slower.

Your pocketed phone beeps. You pull it out faster than your nervous system has any business letting you move.

tipsyGnostalgic [TG] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT]

TG: hey strideyman  
TG: i was thinkin  
TG: shoot me down if this is a bad idea based on ur previous apocalypse knowledges  
TG: but do you think it would make sense to meet me out here?  
TT: Do you mean you want me to come to your house?  
TT: Or to meet you halfway.  
TG: no no meet me hafway  
TG: or well  
TG: three quarters of the way  
TG: seven eigths of the way  
TG: actually eleven twelfths of the way  
TT: What happened.  
TG: we may have a slight problem  
TG: theres uh  
TG: a giant crack  
TT: A crack?  
TG: like a minecraft ravine dirk  
TT: Oh shit.  
TT: How deep?  
TT: And how wide?  
TT: And how long?  
TG: way too wide to jump even with magic  
TG: cant see the bottom  
TG: and cant see the end on either side  
TT: Double shit.  
TG: lol gross  
TT: Do you want me to meet you there and see if we can work out some kind of crossing mechanism with our combined physical arcana expertise?  
TT: Shouldn’t you know some kind of spell for this?  
TT: You were an Antimatter Studies major.  
TG: what do u think they teach u at uni  
TG: how to whip a last crusade invisible bridge outta ur ass?  
TG: no sir  
TT: Guess you wasted your money on that degree, then.  
TT: I’m getting the sense I should just come find you.  
TG: it might be smart for me 2 follow this big crack and see where it ends tho  
TG: or at least see if it gets thinner  
TG: just so we can have a viable route figurd out if u kno what i mean?  
TT: Yeah that’s a good point.  
TT: So I should walk diagonally?  
TG: yup diagonal from whatever direction i would b comin from  
TT: Let me figure that out.

You put your phone aside and grab the map to roxy’s house that you printed last year for an art project involving tracing and urban landscapes. Thank gods for that, since Google maps is no longer running.

According to your map, Roxy is north of you. You locate your compass orb in a drawer and do some reorienting.

TT: Okay, I think I lined things up.  
TT: Which way along the ravine are you walking?  
TG: uhhh to the right outta my house  
TT: Okay, so I’m going to walk at a left diagonal.  
TT: Should I bring survival materials, or are we going to come back to my house after we meet up?  
TG: “survival materials” hahaha u sound like a bad ya author  
TG: but yea bring food and water and shit just in case  
TG: u never kno what could happen  
TT: Got it.  
TT: I’ll stay in touch.  
TT: Are you going to be able to keep your cell service working while walking?  
TG: yea its not too taxing  
TG: my stamina is robust as fuq  
TT: Good to know.  
TT: I’ll see you soon.  
TG: see u soon gayboy  
TG: pls dont trip over your own ass or somethin and make me walk around this entire ravine  
TT: I’ll try.

timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering tipsyGnostalgic [TG]

Well, fuck. It looks like you’re going to have to do some walking anyways. You hope Roxy doesn’t fall into the giant crack in the earth.

* * *

An hour or so later, you’ve gathered enough “survival materials” for the long trek to meet Roxy along the ravine. Among your selections are a Bottomless Canister of warm ramen, the compass orb you picked up earlier, and your enchanted unbreakable katana.

You stop in front of the mirror mounted on your bedroom door before setting off. You suppose it’s kind of vain to think about your appearance when you have much more important things to worry about, but still. You look kind of badass in your post-apocalypse gear. You’re wearing an old graphic tee with Raphael’s _The School Of Athens_ on it, solely because it’s your only sleeveless shirt you don’t care about ruining. Your elastic-ankle sweatpants are tucked into a pair of sturdy maroon boots. And you are, of course, sporting your signature fingerless gloves.

Pretty badass. To be honest, your hair is long enough you could pass for a guy who’s been living off the land for years now. You pull it into a low ponytail as you exit your room. Roxy is going to make fun of you, but hey, you bet she hasn’t had hers recolored for months.

You lock all your doors behind you, licking your lips to properly whisper the sealing spells and dusting your hands off after adding an extra alchemical lock to your front door. It’s the first time you’ve been outside in weeks.

The air still smells like the taste of metal. All around you, colors and sensations trip over each other fighting to make their way into your head. To your dismay, a patchwork of sticky-looking overlapping rocky plates cover the ground where the sidewalk outside your house used to lay, like the carnage of a couple melted stegosauruses. That was _definitely_ not there yesterday.

You take a step forward to test the terrain, and after a moment the rocks beneath your feet start to almost imperceptibly sink. Moving forward again, you turn around to see them rising back up, free of your weight. Like some kind of Super Mario platform.

Great. You’ll have to walk quickly then.

You set off down the path at a brisk pace, turning every so often so ensure a diagonal direction of travel. All the sidewalks and roads and driveways have converted into patchwork plates, but the grass flanking them looks suspiciously wet and marshy, so you’ll stick to the path thank you very much. Most of the suburban houses in your neighborhood are half-crumbled and oozing with all manner of substances, from clear gelatin to blueish blotches of fungus that seem to change shape when you stare too long. Everything you see is in a state of decomposition.

It’s mid afternoon, so the sky has darkened and changed hue. This morning it was grotesquely saturated, like chartreuse bile. Now it’s settled to a subdued teal, more green than blue but closer to its old color than any other time of day. That’s at least a little comforting.

The sun looks sepia-green through the clouds’ teal filter. It casts pea-colored light down upon your surroundings, but most things here have a glow of their own.

timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering tipsyGnostalgic [TG]

TT: Hey.  
TT: I finally started walking.  
TG: well gods damns  
TG: that certainly took a lifetime and a half  
TT: Yeah, I know.  
TT: I had to get my aesthetic together.  
TT: Also I made ramen.  
TG: seems legit  
TG: no giant impassible crakcs in the ground over there?  
TT: Nope, nothing of the sort.  
TT: The ground did turn into colorful quicksand rocks though.  
TT: I kind of feel like I’m in a bigass aquarium, except the rocks are a little flatter and a lot freakier.  
TT: Either that or I’m playing one of those old platformers on Girls Go Games.  
TG: wow damn there arent any quiksand rocks over here  
TG: sounds like a nueisance  
TT: That is definitely not how you spell that word.  
TG: well your dumb ~pesterchum~ doesnt hav thought 2 text OR spellcheck so wat am i supposed to do?  
TT: You’re right.  
TT: It would be absolutely insidious of me to expect you, a grown ass woman with like three degrees, to be able to spell.  
TT: Sorry, *insediuos.  
TG: u probably have some fuckin custom script installed in ur phone to correct ur spelling  
TT: Maybe.  
TG: hahahahaha   
caught red handed  
TG: actually wait  
TG: caught yello handed  
TG: right?  
TG: did u get my magic synesthesia brain joke there  
TG: cause isnt yellow is like  
TG: “im a snooty bitch”  
TT: Good try, but that’s more orange.  
TG: dirk omg u talk in orange  
TT: Wow, really?  
TT: I had no idea.  
TG: lmao ur such a dumbass  
TT: Yeah.  
TT: Anyway, I’m going to go focus on not sinking into the ground.  
TT: Talk to you later.  
TG: aight catch ya later loser

timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering tipsyGnostalgic [TG]

The stones beneath your feet taper off and you find yourself standing on a new sort of yellowish grass, not the same swampy shit from earlier. The blades are thicker than regular suburban lawn grass, but at least they don’t appear to be spiky or poisonous. As you walk further, the grass grows until it almost reaches your calves, and you start to think it looks a little like cartoon kelp.

The house to your left is overgrown with thick green ferns and purple fronds, engulfing the structure like Mesozoic megaflora. You hear a scuffling sound and freeze.

Two of the purple fronds bend outward, and a boot stained with dried oil kicks out from between them. You draw your katana and stand at the ready: according to every post-apocalyptic movie you’ve seen, the percent chance you’re about to encounter a zombie or a cannibalistic marauder are about 85%. The only other options would be an old friend, a plot-important character, or a love interest.

A handsome, dark haired man pushes his way through the ferns. He has a small duffel bag slung over one shoulder, but no swords or machine guns or anything. You hear him mumble something, maybe in Spanish.

“Eso es pura mierda, que—” the man shoves his way out onto the grass and spots you immediately. He goes still. His eyes snap from your face to your weapon and he slowly puts his hands up.

You tighten your grip on your sword. “You speak the common tongue?”

“Yes, yes! I do, thank gods,” the man exclaims.

You take a moment to let the color of his words wash over your senses. Leafy green. Friendly, conversational, but a bit impersonal. Detached in an airheaded sort of way. Funny enough, he’s wearing a green shirt, too. If you squint, you think his eyes have an emerald sort of glint. Green bleeds off of him.

“I do beg your pardon, but I’m rather lost. And I haven’t any weapons on me. So I think rather than working ourselves up to be like reckless survival movie characters, as fun as that sounds, it might be better if we, ah—” he lowers his hands, “calmed down?”

You shrug and obligingly sheathe your katana. “Fair point. I would apologize for the aggressiveness, but I think it pays to be cautious.”

The man nods enthusiastically. “I concur! That’s very sensible, of course, very sensible indeed.”

You just sort of look at each other for another moment, silent. You get the feeling he’s gone as long as you have without seeing anyone, maybe longer.

“I’m Jake.”

“Dirk.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

He fidgets with something in his back pocket. “Could I possibly ask—where is this?”

“You mean geographically? This is just outside of Houston.”

“Could you go a little broader?” he chuckles nervously.

“Texas, dude. Texas.”

“And that’s in America, right?”

You gawk. “You don’t know what country you’re in?”

“It’s a long story! A really long story, and I’ve had a really long day, so I’d rather leave it up to the imagination if that’s acceptable.”

You shake your head and self-consciously swipe some stray hairs back into your ponytail. You were not prepared to run into a hot guy on this excursion. And even with your deep unabiding love for intellectualism, there’s something really sexy about a dude who just has no idea what the fuck is going on. “It’s chill. Just surprised me. Where are you headed?”

“I’m just uh. Headed,” he responds vaguely, sliding his hand around in his pocket.

“What do you have in your back pocket that you’re so busy worrying about?” you ask accusatively.

“A communicative device, my friend.” He smiles and pulls a slick smartphone out of his pocket, twirling it around. It’s in much better shape than yours.

“Yeah alright,” you grunt, conceding. “I’m walking in that direction,” you point along your diagonal path, “so if you want to take a stroll with me and try telling that long story you mentioned earlier, that would be fine.”

Jake smiles brilliantly. “Right-o! I’d love to tag along!”

The two of you make your way through the kelp grass, pushing it out of your way with your hands when it gets so tall you have to wade through. Jake tries explaining his situation to you, but you... have no idea what he’s talking about. He seems convinced that he somehow walked here across the ocean? You guess that _could_ be possible with the world in such a state of magic-induced chaos—it wouldn’t be implausible for the ocean to freeze over, or turn to stone—but it still seems crazy that he could have walked the entire distance from “a little island in the middle of the Pacific” to here.

“You’re so analytical, for a sexy sword-wielding adventure man. You talk like a snobby scientist,” he tells you, kicking grass out of the way with his boots.

“You talk very green,” you inform him cooly. Wait, did he just call you sexy?

“What does that even mean?”

“... Your lexicon, it looks green to me. I have this thing where magic makes colors in my head. It's a rare sensory phenomenon.”

“Oh!” he raises his eyebrows at you, intrigued. “So the different registers in the Common Tongue…”

“Are like different colors for me,” you nod, confirming.

“So what color is yours?”

“Orange.”

He laughs. “That’s fitting. What a strange color combo we make!”

“Yeah, I can’t think of many things that are green and orange,” you say, trying to think of things that are green and orange. “Carrots I guess?”

“Or the flag of Ireland!” he says, cheeky, looking at you over his glasses. “We could be Stephen and Buck, don’t you think?”

You pause. “Was… Was that a Ulysses reference?”

He makes an innocent face. “Was it? I dunno.”

You walk for a while longer in silence. “Wait, which of us is Stephen?”

“Oh, definitely you,” he laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! Hope you enjoyed chapter one! Chapter two (which is already written) should be up ASAP.
> 
> If I do continue on with it, this fic will end up being around 8 chapters, maybe less. So shorter than my long-running Lavender Isle fic (which, by the way, I DO intend to finish! This fic is in no way replacing it, and neither is new good omens stuff). 
> 
> As all chapter titles will be, this title is from Hozier's "Moment's Silence (Common Tongue)" :D


	2. Alarms Are Struck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Most post-apocalyptic stories feature a distinct lack of sexual tension. Dirk and Jake are here to fix that. Also, guns?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is chapter two of this bad boy! I only have a little bit of chap 3 written, but I'm really enjoying my final editing passes over this fic (also I just played the borderlands 2 fight for sanctuary dlc and was reminded of how much i love kinky plants), so I think I'm going to forge ahead and try to finish the story! :D Warnings in the endnotes!

You’re propped up on the dusty ground with Jake’s hand down your pants.

After traipsing through a long stretch of knee-high grass, the two of you suddenly found yourselves on an open, sandy trail. You followed it a good twenty feet along your diagonal trajectory before things got... a little out of hand.

Jake grabbed your arm to avoid tripping over an innocuous root sticking out of the path. The guy has such nice fucking biceps, so who are you to blame if you put a little too much effort into steadying him? It’s not your fault. When two obviously not-heterosexual dudes are stranded together in the ruins of a decaying planet, they’re automatically bestowed with a mountainous fuckton of sexual tension.

So maybe you grabbed his shirt a little, and kissed him a little. And pulled his bag off his shoulder and tossed it in the sand. Or maybe it was the other way around. You don’t remember. Your brain stopped encoding declarative memories as soon as Kissing A Hot Guy became an option on the table. 

It’s been an entire month since the magipocalypse and you haven’t even been able to watch porn. Lords forgive you for being horny. Obviously your critical thinking skills are a little impaired after a month of continued isolation, especially considering whatever traumatic effect surviving the literal end of all things has probably had on you. But you’re struggling to find a reason to care, because this really cute buff guy is palming your dick.

“Oh, Gods,” you whine, very unmanlylike. Your glasses lie on the ground next to you, but Jake’s head is blocking out the bile-green sun in just the right position to shade your eyes.

“Blimey, you have nice fucking skin,” he says, kissing your temple. You are definitely not listening.

His hand is still between your sweatpants and your boxers instead of on your skin for some fucking reason, but the friction is enough for now. It’s exhilarating in all the right ways, being pinned to the ground still clothed. Honestly, you’re really turned on by… the whole idea of it. That the two of you are just so eager to fuck you can’t bother to get naked. Jake’s other hand slides your shirt up your chest so he has access to your pathetic excuses for abs. You moan unrestrainedly into the humid air .

You trace your hands down the contours of his shoulders—his extremely muscular shoulders, holy shit—and stop at the small of his back to hike his shirt up. Then you cup one hand around his ass, because a guy can never resist a little hand on ass action. Your pointer finger finds something poking out of his waistband, something bigger than his phone, kind of cylindrical, rather cold and metallic and…

“Fuck,” you gasp, half surprise and half arousal, “do you have a gun in your pants?”

Jake jerks away and balks at you, but not before you pull the pistol handle out from his waistband and scoot backwards.

“What the fuck is this!” you shout, pointing it at him.

“Christ on a cracker, be careful with that! I didn’t mean to frighten, honest, just—” he holds his hands up in submission again, the same way he did when you pointed your katana at him earlier, “please put it down, that thing is dangerous!”

“What the _fuck_ , is it _loaded_?”

Jake’s grimace tells you everything you need to know. You slide the gun across the sand a good three feet, out of arm’s reach. You watch Jake carefully. He doesn’t lunge for it.

“Okay, explain to me please,” you bark, pulling yourself into a more respectable position, still flushed and more than a little aroused, “why you lied about being armed. And… where did your phone go?”

“It was a gun the whole time,” he admits, sheepish. “I’m sorry! I didn’t want to worry you. You seem like such a skittish fellow. I only brought arms along because—well, people always do in action movies, and I figured other adventurers might have the same idea, so…” he trails off, looking at you more pleadingly than you’d expect from a man who keeps guns in the back of his jeans.

“Hold on, _arms_ , _plural_?”

He winces. “Just that one! I swear it. My most serious and sincere apologies.”

You eye him suspiciously. “So the phone was an illusion, then?”

“Yes,” he nods, “just a little trick I learned.”

“Then you have no real means of communication.”

Jake stares at you for a moment as if that fact was utterly irrelevant, and it had in fact never even dawned on him. He hesitates before answering, “Yes, no, I do not have any means of communication. I don’t have much of anyone to communicate with, though, so it’s a non-issue.”

Oh. He’s all alone. The way he says it evokes a natural pity response, but you’re still running on adrenaline from the foreplay and the surprise gun, so you decide now is not the time to have an emotional Talk™.

“Okay,” you stand up, dusting the sand off your ass, “I am going to carry the gun from now on. Are you amenable to that arrangement?”

Jake nods his conceit. His easy relinquishment does make him look a little less guilty in your brain’s judicial court, but you’d better keep on your toes. There’s no telling what kind of a maniac this guy could turn out to be. 

He stands and watches as you walk a little ways to pick up the gun and tuck it into the back of your sweatpants. His shoulders slump in defeat, shuffling to pick up his bag. “So no more sexytimes?”

You sigh, pinching your nose. “No. No more sexytimes for now. Your gun killed my boner.”

“Erm… I hate to break it to you, but your boner isn’t exactly killed.”

You shoot him a glare, bending to pick up your backpack. So maybe you find danger a little sexy, yeah. You’re still not about to let him pin you again after all that. Way too easy.

“Listen, can I search your bag?”

“Is that an innuendo?”

“No, fuck, I just want to make sure you aren’t hiding another gun from me.”

“By Jove you are paranoid!”

You groan. “Can I search it or not?”

“Sure, fine, whatever floats your good-looking boat,” he pouts, tossing his bag at you. You catch it with less grace than intended, staggering back under the weight of the little thing.

“Jesus, what is in here?” You pull the drawstrings and peer into the bag. It’s internally augmented, the same as your own, but to a degree you’ve never seen pulled off successfully. “You could fit a circus in this thing.”

“Right-o,” he smiles proudly. “Enchanted it myself!”

“Damn,” you whistle under your breath in English. 

You spend the next five minutes pulling a variety of bullshit magical items from Jake’s bag and examining them with a passport inspector’s scrutiny. Jake looks uncomfortable as you go through his stuff. You’re starting to get some colorful ideas about whatever his profession might have been before the apocalypse. Your theories: clown, prostitute, clown prostitute, hobbyist hoarder, or tetzel-esque magical trinket vendor. Hobbyist hoarder seems the most likely scenario, according to your brief calculations, but you wouldn’t be _entirely_ surprised if you found a hoard of 15th century indulgences in his collection of shit.

“Ten cuidado, por favor…” he mutters, shifting from foot to foot as you spin a weird glass ball you found around in your hands.

“What even is this? A crystal ball?”

“No,” he clears his throat, “No, it’s a fushigi ball! Remember those old infomercials?”

“... Uh, no, I super fucking don’t.” 

You toss him the ball and he starts doing some weird hand maneuvers with it. Hey, he’s actually pretty good.

“Okay, okay, I’m convinced of your innocence,” you say, shoving his hulking bag back at him. “You can have this. I’m still keeping the gun.”

“If you’re allowed to go through _my_ personal belongings, why can’t I go through yours?” he slings his bag over his shoulder and crosses his arms.

… You suppose that’s a fair request. You don’t have anything incriminating on you. “Sure, fine,” you tell him, handing him your dinky drawstring backpack, “but we’re walking as you look. I have places to be.”

You continue along your quasi-diagonal path through the bizarre, caustic suburban landscape as Jake rummages through your shit. The sky is changing color again, darkening to a heavy magenta. Beneath your feet, the sandy path stays fairly constant, but the flora to your left and right gets denser as you walk. It might be your imagination, but some of the flowers look like grotesque, neon animal’s heads.

You open your phone to pester Roxy, only to find a couple missed messages.

tipsyGnostalgic [TG] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT]

TG: updates?  
TG: where u at d stri  
TG: dirk did the ground eat you yet  
TG: txt me when u can ok  
TG: dirk  
TG: dirnk  
TG: drik  
TG: dirn  
TG: dririrrkkkkkkrkrkkrkrkkk  
TT: I’m here. I didn’t get eaten by the ground.  
TG: thank fuq oh my gods you almost gave me a heart attack  
TT: I would text you if I was on the brink of death, I promise.  
TG: dam right u best keep dat promise  
TT: Yeah.  
TT: So.  
TT: Interesting developments over here.  
TT: I ran into a guy.  
TG: OWO OWO OWO  
TG: a guy???!??!???  
TT: Yes. OWO. A guy.  
TG: he cute?  
TT: Very.  
TT: He had a gun though.  
TT: I confiscated it and also went through the rest of his shit to make sure he wasn’t some kind of renegade assassin.  
TG: wow bold  
TG: so im assumin hes not some kind of renegade assasin?  
TT: Nope. Just a regular dude.  
TT: Well, I don’t know if regular would be the right word.  


“Who are you typing away at over there?” Jake asks, looking up from the ramen-filled thermas he’s examining. He kicks his feet a little as he walks, you notice.

“A friend. I’m trying to meet up with her.”

“Oh!” he raises his eyebrows. “Tell your friend I extend my greetings!”

TG: whats he like?  
TG: dirk tell me all about this boi  
TG: dirk dirk whered u go  
TT: Sorry, had to talk to the boy.  
TT: He “extends his greetings” to you, apparently.  
TG: hahahaha what a fuckin dork  
TG: who even talks like that?  
TG: OH SHIT what color are his words or whatever?  
TT: Green.  
TT: Like, #1f9400, if I had to guess.  
TG: thats so specific jfc  
TG: what does that like mean?  
TG: like as far as regular voices go  
TG: standard arcane registers  
TG: can u use some tone words?  
TT: Warm, but sort of detached.  
TT: I almost want to say artificially friendly, but the friendliness isn’t artificial, I don’t think.  
TT: Green is a color I don’t see a lot.  
TG: huh weird  
TG: ur color brain is so dope  
TG: anyway  
TG: about the boy  
TG: u can ofc bring him along if u think he isnt dangerous  
TG: maybe hell have some freaky powers that can help us jump this big ass crack  
TG: heheh ass crack  
TG: lmk if you think of any brilliant solutions crack-wise btw  
TG: ok?  
TG: thats all i got  
TG: dirk  
TG: dirk  
TG: striderooni  
TG: oh my godddddddds where did u go  


Texting while walking is… a dangerous game. It’s hard to watch where you’re going. The sand path, which up until now had been completely solid under you, is now cratered with little puddles of salty turquoise water. Except they aren’t puddles. More like sinkholes.

Jake yelps and drops your bag as you fall feet-first down into a shitty magic tide pool.

“Fuck,” you curse, “fucking goddamn idiot, Dirk.” You toss your phone up onto the sand, but it’s already soaked.

“Are you alright?” Jake asks in Common. “Heavens to betsy, I hardly even noticed all these puddles either!”

He extends a hand to help pull you out of the water. You grunt, hoisting yourself up onto the sand. You wince as your free hand drags against something sharp.

“I’m fine,” you cough, wringing out your hands. Ow, fuck—your left pointer finger is bleeding a little, stinging from the water and sand. “Minor injury,” you hold up your finger. Guess your fingerless gloves don’t function very well as post-apocalyptic protective gear.

Jake’s eyes widen with concern. “Oh dear.” 

“It’s just a scratch, dude,” you assure him. “I have bandages in my bag if you want to grab some, please and thanks.”

“Sure thing!” Jake rummages around in your bag as you pick your phone back up, attempting to sop up some of the water with the dryer parts of your shirt up by your shoulder. You mostly just kind of succeed in rubbing more sand all over it. You guess Roxy will have to wait a bit before hearing back from you. The loss of you only communicative device might be a huge fucking disaster, apocalypse-survival wise, but you’re choosing to block that terror out right now.

“Here we are,” Jake says, pulling out a roll of bandages and handing them to you. “I can do it if you want...” 

“Nah.” You’re already applying them on your own. You don’t have a medical degree or anything, but you trust Jake even less than yourself with first aid. It’s really awkward wrapping real ass bandages around only a single one of your bony fingers, but you make do.

“Let’s just keep moving,” you sigh, tossing the roll back to Jake when you’re finished. “We shouldn’t be too far off from my predicted destination.”

He nods and starts walking with you again. You both now watch the ground as you proceed, wary of the porous sand. Your phone is completely shorted out; it’s supposed to be waterproof, but not magic resistant, so you guess the magic-water-combo really did a number on it. When you turn it on, it just flashes teal and glitches out all over the place.

You realize after a short while that Jake’s gun must have slipped from your waistband when you fell, too. You’re down a weapon now, which is not a good thing, but at least it’s his gun and not your sword. Your katana, thank magical jesus, is still strapped securely against your back. You hope Jake forgets about the gun thing. 

After maybe twenty minutes of walking, your finger is still throbbing. You try to bend it through the bandage like an idiot, which makes it sting even more.

Jake looks over, noticing when you hiss through your teeth. “Finger still hurt?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you grunt. “I feel like I’m supposed to clean the wound or something. Isn’t that a thing people do?”

“Right, yes, that’s definitely a thing people do,” he agrees, nodding sagely. “It’s rather clear on the path over here, why don’t we take a short rest and check out your little boo boo?”

You nod and settle with him in the little clearing he pointed out, plopping your bag down beside you. 

The bandage hurts like a bitch to remove. You start to freak out a little bit as you look underneath. 

The wound is crusted over with a sickly turquoise color that stains the skin around it. Pinkish veins spread from the cut and loop halfway around your finger. You didn't notice before, but now that you're paying attention, the whole area radiates a magic pulse the same warm, crystal green color as Jake’s cadence. 

Deep breaths. Fuck. Are you gonna have to amputate your hand?

“How’s it look?” Jake asks, craning his neck to see. You extend your hand and show him, and his eyes widen with concern. “... Little late for cleaning, then.”

You gulp and nod. You wish your phone wasn’t fucking busted so you could message Roxy. An unidentified magical infection, even in your non-dominant hand, is cause for panic. If anyone would know what to do about it, it would be her.

“Do you know any tech repair magic?” you ask. “I really need to message my friend.”

Jake scrunches his mouth to one side. “I miiiight be able to do something?”

At this point, you don’t give a fuck what damage he might do to your phone, since it’s already met its maker. You just hand the damn thing over and hope for the best.

Jake turns his back to you and starts fiddling with it. He positions his attractively broad shoulders very intentionally so you can’t see what he’s doing. Pretty sketchy, but hey, are you in a situation to do anything about that? Not fucking really.

In a matter of seconds he hands it back to you, grinning like he expects your approval. “Should be good as new!”

You push the home button. It lights up, proudly displaying the muscley baroque horse painting you use as a lock screen.

You decide to put off interrogating Jake about whatever the fuck crazy magic he just pulled out of his ass. You have a best friend to text.

timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering tipsyGnostalgic [TG]

TT: Sorry.  
TT: I fell down a hole.  
TG: holy shit u were gone like fuckin FOREVER   
TG: u ok?  
TT: Uh  
TT: As much as I would like to answer that question affirmatively  
TT: We might have a slight issue.  
TG: ????  
TT: Did you take any classes on magical infections in uni?  
TG: im sorri dirk but what the fuqq is that...  
TG: even supposed to mean like holy balls  
TT: I cut my finger on some shitty rock.  
TT: Back when I fell into the pool I mean.  
TG: hold on u fell into a pool? i thoughtttt  
TG: you said you fell uh down a hole my dude  
TT: It wasn’t like a swimming pool, dummy.  
TT: A tidal pool. Contained within a hole.  
TG: uh huh ok i see im glad we got  
TG: ur holes all sorted out. shits high import.  
TT: Okay, so as I said, about the cut.  
TT: It looks infected with some kind of weird…  
TT: Arcane corruption. Like, its bright ass teal.  
TG: goddamn u cant send pictures on this thing   
TG: correct? cause i am hella worried now  
TT: Hold on.  
TT: What the fuck.  
TG: … am i uh not allowed to worry for  
TG: my bestest friend and favoritest gay dude?  
TT: Wait say something else.  
TG: this magical corruptions fuckin u  
TG: right up the noggin isnt it oh gods  
TT: Why are you talking in iambic couplets?  
TT: Why was I also talking in iambic couplets?  
TG: uh what the hell u mean iambic coup  
TG: lets dude? im talkin normal far as i  
TG: OH MY GODS WHY AM I TALKING IN IAMBIC COUPLETS  
TT: You weren’t doing it on purpose right?  
TG: no fuckin CHRIST i wasnt doin it on purpose what the FUCK  
TT: Are we losing our minds or like…  
TT: Is this pollution poisoning?  
TG: i mean if all the malevolent magical pollution does is make us speak in shakespeare that would be totes chillax with me  
TG: but i got a feeling this is somethin much weirder  
TT: I’m going to ask Jake about it.  
TT: I promise I’ll keep in touch, and I’ll try not to fall down any more holes.  
TG: gotcha sounds good  
TG: b safe pls  
TG: xoxo  


You slide your phone slowly into your pocket. Your hands shake a little bit as you hold them up in front of you, comparing the two. Your infected finger isn’t swollen or anything; it’s just painful and unnaturally colored. 

What the hell was that about? Living in a world with magic, you’ve learned not to take weird coincidences lightly.

You turn on Jake and pin him in place with a judgmental glare. He shrinks back under your scrutiny.

“Where did you learn repair magic like that?” 

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Interfacing with non-magic technology is tricky shit. And my phone isn’t magic, because I don’t trust Big Arcana.”

“Uhm… big what?”

“Corporations. I’m a millennial. Ugh. What I’m saying is—my phone is completely mundane. Roxy and I have been quietly straining ourselves for the past month just trying to hold a sliver of cell service, and you restored this whole ass device to a previous state of being. And you _cleansed_ it of arcane corruption, too, what the fuck?”

Jake doesn’t reply. He just sort of gulps at you.

“Wait, hold on, can you do my finger?” you ask. “If you un-corrupted my phone, can you do my finger?”

“No,” he says despairingly, “I’m sorry, I can’t. It would be too easy.”

“What the fuck do you _mean_ it would be too easy?”

“It’s just—I’m sorry Dirk! It can’t go like that!”

You feel as the chapter sort of... ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: a gun, sexual tension, minor injury (not from the gun).
> 
> Hope you enjoyed chapter two! The plot is really picking up from here on out.
> 
> (Sorry for the cop-out almost sex, but I promise there will be real sex later lmao.)
> 
> AS ALWAYS, chapter title is from Hozier's "Moment's Silence (Common Tongue)" !!!


	3. Adding Shadows To The Walls Of The Cave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys find themselves in a Triassic junglescape. Dirk wants information and there's only one way to get it: trick Jake into kinky plot-exposition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Another chapter! My posting schedule has been reduced drastically because I'm in classes full time now, but I'm loving the time I get to spend with this fic :D Hope everyone enjoys! Warnings in the endnotes!

You’re walking through a dense Triassic jungle. The occasional suburban porch sticks out conspicuously through the foliage, totally ruining the mood, but otherwise you feel like you could be in book one of The Magic Treehouse or something.

It’s been an hour or so since your confrontation with Jake. You get the sense there are some questions you Aren’t Allowed To Ask Him, so you’re going to take your time setting up your next interrogation session. Build it up all nice and languid. Give him the slow-burn he really wants. 

So, your finger hurts like a bitch now. It hurts so much the pain has wormed its way under your skin and is wriggling around your veins like a tapeworm. It dies down to a dull ache when you keep your mind off of it, but it’s--radiating this hot pink pulse of _something_ , something that catches your eye no matter where you try to hold your hand behind your back. Jake can’t see the magenta tint, but you’re sure he can feel the magic.

He hasn’t said a thing about it yet, but if you’re getting information anywhere in this hellscape, it’s going to be out of him.

timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering tipsyGnostalgic [TG]

TT: Update on the boy.  
TT: There’s something very fucked up about him.  
TT: Not in a sociopathic kind of way, though.  
TT: He’s just magically incomprehensible.  
TG: it took u way too long 2 respond jesus ur scaring the shit out of me  
TG: this boy is sounding sketchier by the minute  
TG: like  
TG: “not in a sociopathic way"  
TG: the fact that u have to clarify is fucked u kno  
TT: Yeah.  
TT: But he’s the only other person out here.  
TG: ya im well aware  
TG: did u find out about the iambs?  
TT: No, but I’m about to.  
TT: I have a great plan to get him to talk.  
TT: Don’t worry about it, because it’s under control.  
TG: hmmmm alright whatever u say  
TT: You still walking along the ravine?  
TG: yup its still crack city over here  
TG: crack city bitch crack crack city bitch  
TG: if anything tge crack is just getting deeper as i walk  
TG: im taking a break next to this reedy kinda river  
TG: havin a snack TG: larping out my very bestest apocalypse survivor camp scenario  
TT: It’s not larping if you’re actually an apocalypse survivor making a camp.  
TT: That’s literally just reality.  
TG: hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm  
TG: but isnt reality just larping?  
TG: we are all playign roles dirk  
TT: That’s pretty deep, but we’re going to have to agree to disagree.  
TT: Anyway, I’m going to try to fuck some information out of Jake.  
TT: Talk to you later if I find anything out.  
TG: lmao have fun dont get murdered  


You nearly trip over a cluster of roots as you’re texting, so Jake amicably slows his pace down to lower your chance of mortal injury. When you’re done updating Roxy, you slip your phone back into your pocket.

Jake is still hiking in silence. Time to hit the gas on your flirtations, then.

“So, you like books, yeah?"

“Hm? Not really. I much prefer comics."

You shoot him a look. “You referenced Ulysses at me earlier. Don’t tell me there’s a Ulysses comic book."

“Er… okay, no, there isn’t a Ulysses comic book."

You wait patiently for him to respond. Ferns curl in all directions as you walk. Some of them move slightly, and not in response to any wind.

“I was homeschooled."

“Right. That explains everything."

Jake makes himself appear awfully focused on the trail ahead. You’re not sure if he understood your sarcasm.

“So, tell me about yourself. What sorts of things do you like, Jake?"

“Good question," he grunts. “Dunno. I like lots of things! Action movies, archaeology, erm… Guns and skulls...."

“Those are some weird ass interests."

“Not like yours aren’t just as random. I mean you’re into, what, philosophy and history and swords and anime?"

“Fair point, although I didn’t ever at any point tell you about my interests, so you’re going to have to explain that one."

“Simple," he quips. “They practically bleed off you. Raphaelshirt, katana, huge stash of ramen noodles. I can be a good deductive, Dirk."

You give him a testy glance. “And enlighten me as to what a deductive is?"

“Like a detective," he swats at a stray vine, “but it sounds funnier."

You sigh and pull out your phone again. Just as you’re about to text Roxy complaining about your sassy fuckbuddy, Jake swings an arm out and stops you.

“Wha—" you start, about to protest, but Jake shushes you violently. He puts a hand in your hair--hot damn--and drags your head up to look forward.

Ahead of you is a sudden clearing, the dirt path now blanketed by grass and the trees thinned out to only a few gigantic, skyscraper-high specimens. A dinosaur is eating one of them.

“Holy shit," you breathe. You snap a picture with your phone camera.

The dinosaur is one of those long necked ones. _Sauropods,_ you vaguely remember from your intro Paleontology course. Its skin is grey and leathery almost like an elephant, and it's probably more than thirty feet tall.

You and Jake watch in frozen silence as the sauropod stands on its hind legs to reach a particularly high branch. When it comes back down, the tremor through the ground reverberates to the ends of the clearing and makes your knees numb.

“Woah nelly," Jake whispers.

Across the clearing, the ground drops off into a big hill, the jungle tapering off before it reaches the bottommost point. A herd of funny looking dinosaurs with huge crests cluster around a body of water, and a couple more long-necked giants mill about the area.

“Shit," you whisper back, “one of them’s going to step on us or something."

“Ehm, they’re all herbivores, Dirk."

“I know that, idiot. Step on us by _accident_. That thing could fit five Jakes under its foot."

Your knees are still weak, so you lean against him, sinking your weight against his shoulder. He mutters, “Should we move under the cover of the forest, then?"

“Don’t bad dinosaurs live in the jungle?"

“Possibly. What are you more afraid of; hypothetical raptors or probable foot-crushing?"

“Foot crushing," you answer quickly. Still hanging onto Jake’s side, you make your way back into the jungle flanking the clearing. 

You continue a ways, curving to the left to avoid the hill and the… holy shit, _dinosaurs_. Those were _dinosaurs_. You’re most likely dehydrated or something, because you’re nearly dizzy trying to wrap your head around them. 

Where did they come from? The center of the damn earth? You feel this sinking sense of deja vu, and the conclusion suddenly dawns on you...

“Jurassic Park."

“Great film," he remarks.

“Yeah, obviously. But I’m saying--that whole thing, it was staged just like Jurassic Park."

Jake scoffs as if he’s offended. “Hardly. We didn’t even have a jeep."

“Okay," you say through gritted teeth, “at some point I am going to figure out what the fuck your deal is. But I’ll let you off the hook for now."

“Thank you, oh generous one," he sighs.

“You clearly have reality-manipulation powers," you continue.

“What? I thought I was off the hook!"

“No—yeah. Listen. I’m just saying, if you have reality-manipulation powers, why don’t you do something more fun than recreating classic Spielberg movies?"

Jake whirls around and catches one of your wrists in his hand. “Like what, Dirk? What would you suggest?"

You shrug and turn the corners of your mouth up just enough to let him know you’re fucking around. “I don’t know. Huge forest, girthy vines, alien-lookin’ flowers. You’re missing a lot of opportunities."

He grabs your other wrist and backs you up into a bulky rock half-covered in ferns. You steady your hips, forcing them not to jerk up into him, but he’s already pressing his body against yours and kissing down your neck.

“Ohh," you gasp, “is that all you got?"

“I’m just getting started," he breathes into your ear. 

Vines of varying lengths start to curl their way up your legs. They tighten around your ankles, holding you nearly immobile as Jake gives the tender skin above your collarbone a hearty thrashing. 

“Fuck," you groan, your breath hitching in your throat. The guy’s certainly got an imagination. You feel a vine start to crawl up your neck toward your mouth, but you turn your head away. “Hey—no way, I have to be able to talk. Communication, you bastard."

Jake whines regretfully as the vine retreats. “I think you’d be lovely with that pretty throat of yours all choked up."

“Then put your dick it in or something, Jesus."

He seems to consider the prospect, biting at your earlobe as he grinds into you. You gasp sharply, pressing your chest into his, shivering where your hard nipples chafe against your shirt.

“You’re far too eager to have me inside of you, I think. I don’t want to give myself away so fast."

Fine, whatever, he can be a tease if he wants. Your plan would be fucked if your mouth was busy anyway, so you just sigh and let him continue kissing your neck. Now vines have encircled your wrists, too, so Jake is free to feel up your chest. He pinches your nipples hard through your shirt. _Fuck_ , he is _sexy_.

“Oh Gods, Jake," you moan, “you’re good at this. Hobby of yours?"

“Unfortunately not," he mutters against your chin, “but I’d like for it to be."

“So, are you the reason I started talking in Iambic couplets?"

He pulls away and gapes at you, looking awfully betrayed. “Do we _have_ to talk about that right now? I’m not going to do this if you’re going to—bleed me for information!"

You manage to wiggle your thigh just enough to wedge it between his legs. Then you turn your head and give him your sexiest, most helpless moan. “Please don’t stop, Jake."

“Blimey," he gasps. He falls easily back into you, rutting up against your leg.

“Why Iambic? Do you like Shakespeare? You don’t seem the type, but apparently you like Joyce, and that’s almost more surprising. Are you a Hamlet fan?"

“Fuck," he says desperately into your shoulder, “I don’t know what you’re talking about."

“You do."

“I don’t!" he bites you particularly ruthlessly on the clavicle, but you only give him a small gasp. “Stop interrogating me."

“Listen, Jake, it’s the easiest way," you moan. “You don’t want to tell me what’s up, I get it. But I know you wouldn’t stop a sex scene in its tracks if the world depended on it."

He whines into your shoulder wordlessly, his hands drifting down to your hips.

“Seriously, I stole your whole ass gun earlier and you were _still_ trying to fuck me."

“Okay, mayhaps that’s a fair point," he swallows. “So what, you’re taking advantage of my desperate need for sexual release to pry plot details out of me?"

“Yeah," you press your knee into his crotch harder, or as hard as you can manage with vines still engulfing your calves, “that’s exactly what I’m doing. Tell me about the Iambs."

“That wasn’t me, stupid," he gasps through his teeth, “it was you!"

“What? No it wasn’t."

“Yes it was. You just didn’t realize it. I can’t do meter, that’s obviously more your thing."

“Meter?"

He starts palming at your dick through your sweatpants. “Form, style, medium, whatever. See, for example, you’ve got it all in prose now. Can’t you tell?"

You frankly have no idea what the fuck he’s talking about, but his hand on your dick feels _exquisite_.

“Dirk," he groans, “it’s like a story, okay? It’s all like a story. What I can change is limited. I can’t do narration. That’s all you."

“Mhnn, what do you mean it’s all me?" you gasp, arching your back into him.

“I mean, think about it, who’s telling the story? Or at least, who’s reading it?" “What are you on about, fuck." A vine pries gingerly at your wounded finger, and you nearly scream into Jake’s ear from the pain. It shoots magenta streaks up your vision.

“You’re the main character. Second person. You’ve got control over the words. Or, at least, you do now."

Jake is either literally crazy or talking in riddles. I mean, obviously you’re the proverbial “main character," because everyone is the main character in their own heads, right? The only thoughts you can hear are your own. What kind of egotistical bullshit is he trying to imply…?

“You’re being a cagey motherfucker. Explain things in a way that makes sense or I swear—"

“Dirk," he pleads, “just try! Try to do it differently. Third person or something, I don’t know!"

You don’t know what that _means_. You can’t just make the world in third person, not even if you…

***

Dirk’s eyes widen as Jake continues jerking him off.

“Wait," he breathes, “wait, say something." His freckled cheeks are red with heat and his hair has half-fallen from his ponytail around his shoulders like a disheveled angel.

“Oh," Jake exclaims, “see, you’ve done it!" 

Jake shoves Dirk’s shirt up over his nipples and begins to kiss his chest. Dirk squirms beneath him, his hips jerking against the host of vines encircling his legs.

“Fuck, this is weird," Dirk moans. Even more acutely than the arousal pooling in his crotch, he feels another sharp pain in his pointer finger. His mind floods magenta. “I don’t like it. Put it back."

“I keep telling you, I’m not doing this!"

“Fine, shit, let me—"

Two boys are having rough sex in a dense triassic jungle. The one on top, JAKE, wears combat boots and tight shorts. The other, DIRK, wears a tank top and sweatpants. His pants have fallen his knees as JAKE fingers him through his boxers.]

DIRK: Fuck, what did I do now?

JAKE: Holy toledo. No idea.

DIRK: I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all.

[DIRK moans. It is unclear whether from pleasure or discomfort.]

DIRK: I feel like someone is watching us.

JAKE: Are you into that? 

DIRK: No, I am not. Fuck.

DIRK: But don’t stop touching me.

JAKE: Haha, you are into it, you sexy little playwright!

DIRK: Jesus, what kind of dirty talk is that? At least call me a slut or something.

JAKE: Fine. You’re quite the demanding slut.

[JAKE wets his fingers through mysterious magical means and slides one swiftly up DIRK’s ass.]

DIRK: Fuck!

DIRK: Take my boxers off first, oh gods.

[He hurriedly drops his boxers to his knees. JAKE makes no effort to help, only continues fingering him.]

JAKE: Now, see, this here is a play I would watch.

JAKE: Please don’t put me in iambs or anything. Keep this darling little scene _accessible_.

DIRK: Shit. Accessibility, the bane of academia.

DIRK: Anal fingering, also the bane of academia.

JAKE: You know you love it.

DIRK: Yes, gods, I do, please more Jake.

JAKE: How’s about I…

[A stray VINE creeps up DIRK’s asscheek and presses in beside Jake’s fingers. DIRK lets out a high-pitched moan in surprise.]

DIRK: Fuck!!!

DIRK: Oh. Oh, dammit, I want my perspective back, I want the language to _feel_ —

You jumpstart the narrative back into... Whatever this is. Whatever it usually is. The style in which you get to viscerally describe all of your feelings as they hit you. But not first person, because fuck first person.

Jake is pressed hot against you, but the rock feels freezing against your back. Similarly freezing is the vine sliding its way up your ass. It’s about the width of a finger and a half, but it’s tapered slightly so can stretch you wider as it moves further into you.

The way it curls and slides feels so completely and utterly different from Jake’s finger—which is, by the way, still inside you, too. Your dick is like a fucking steel rod in Jake’s cupped hand.

“Fuck," you cry, “fuck, Jake, it’s so good, I’m so close." 

He moans into your neck as he grinds against you. He’s just sort of rutting his dick up against your stomach, but it’s clearly doing enough for him. “Oh," he gasps, “come for me you needy little thing."

Well, you can’t say no to a request like that. You clench painfully around the vine as you come down your thigh. Jake finishes just after you, dripping down your stomach. 

“Oh, Christ," you hiss as he pulls his fingers out. “Go slow, please. With the—fuck."

The vine pulls out of you almost excruciatingly slow. And _gods_ , it’s weird. The usual weirdness of pulling something out of your ass but much prolonged and so… sticky. 

“Shit," you sigh. “Okay. Wild. That was wild."

Jake mumbles sleepily into your skin. He’s collapsed on top of you, boxing you in.

“We can take a break before we start walking," you tell him.

“Thank gods," he whines.

* * *

You’re lying on the ground next to Jake, fully clothed but still really sticky in your boxers. Luckily he brought along a picnic blanket in his Bag of Holding, so you don’t have to lie on the dirty Triassic soil. It’s still not very comfortable, but you’re not about to sit up.

“So…" you start, “now that we’ve properly fucked will you talk to me about this crazy magic shit?"

“Dirk," he groans, “now? Do we have to do this now?"

“Please?"

“Okay," he sighs, turning over to lie on his stomach, “fine. Ask me anything."

“I have reality-bending powers because I got magic water in my finger, right?"

“Yes. Correct."

“So the same thing happened to you? You got injured somewhere and infected with the special wizard bullshit?"

He sighs, smushing his face into the blanket. “Er… sort of. No. Not quite."

“Explanation?"

“It’s… a long story."

“The last time you told me a ‘long story’ you said you walked across the ocean. Which I didn’t really believe, but I’m kind of second guessing that judgement now."

“I did!" he exclaims. “I did, I seriously did. I lived on an _island_ , how else would I have _gotten_ here?"

“Okay, so… you walked across the ocean. From your island. That you lived on by yourself."

“I know it sounds crazy, but it’s true!"

“How the fuck would you have survived all alone on an island? Some plant would have eaten you as an infant."

“Well, I had a guardian! For a little while. Augh, this is so hard to explain. Let me just..."

* * *

Your name is Jake English and you are sitting in the garden with your grandmother. It’s midday and the plantlife is as active as ever. A succulent with a long, curly stem brushes up against your ankle, tickling you. You absentmindedly play with a petal while you wait for Gran to finish her work.

Paperwork of some sort, as she calls it. You’re like 10 years old at this point, so you don’t know what paperwork is.

“Gran," you whine.

“Yes, Jake?" She looks up from her stack of papers, her round glasses sliding down her nose.

“I’m bored."

“Well, Grandma is almost done with her work. Why don’t you go play while I finish this up?"

“I don’t want to go play. The trees keep trying to grab me and eat me."

“Ah," she sighs, tapping her pen.

“Can you take me to see…"

“No, dear."

“You don’t even know what I was gonna say!"

“You were going to ask to see the Grand Generators again. We’ve been over this, sweetie, they’re very powerful and dangerous."

“They just make words for people. How dangerous can they be? I’ve fought real monsters!"

Gran puts her pen down, gathers up her papers, and pats you on the head. “Let’s go inside and have some lunch. Why are you so interested in the Grand Generators?"

You stand and shrug. “They keep talking to me. They make this loud thumping noise and I want it to stop."

Gran looks worried as she takes your hand. “Try… not to listen, Jake, dear."

* * *

And you’re lying back on the Triassic jungle floor on Jake’s picnic blanket.

“What… the fuck was that?"

“A flashback! See how narratively innovative I’m being?"

“I thought you couldn’t control the narrative?"

“No- Well, yes... “ he chews his lip and gestures aimlessly. “I can do theme and content and the like. Big, ephemeral changes. I think flashbacks are about as close as I can get to the realm of literary devices."

“Content is a broad fucking term. Are you saying you can shape the entire goddamn world?"

“No! No, definitely not. It’s not like that."

You narrow your eyes. “It sounds like you’re lying."

“I don’t want to talk about this. Did you like my flashback?"

“Uh, yeah. It was kind of weird because you made me be ten year old you somehow?"

“Well, we were ten years old together. I thought it would be more fun than boring chunks of expositional dialogue like this."

“Probably true. So, the **Grand Generators** were on your island?"

“Yes," he nods.

“And you lived there with your grandmother."

“Mhm. Big tech tycoon, she was. Helped design the Generators."

“What does any of this have to do with your reality bending magic powers?"

Jake rubs his forehead and takes a moment to gather his response. “The island and the Grand Generators… they produced this massive field of ehm, magical weird-ness. I grew up practically soaked in it. Did funny things in the long run."

“Wow, shit. So you basically have magical radiation poisoning?"

“Basically," he sighs. 

You card through the information in your head. If the Grand Generators gave Jake his funky powers, are they responsible for your new prose-bending abilities? Are they behind this entire magi-pocalypse in some way? And, if so, how are they still running?

Jake stands and slings his bag over his shoulder. “We should start moving again."

You nod your conceit and stand with him. As he gathers up the picnic blanket, you add, “Thanks for cooperating. With the interrogation."

He side-eyes you, his glasses glinting in the teal sunbeams. “You’re so very welcome. Next time, let’s have sex without plot exposition."

“Can do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: dinosaur encounter, restraints, plant sex, childhood flashback.
> 
> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed the latest installment of Crazy Gay Dudes Fuck With Narrative Form! The chapter title this time around comes from a DIFFERENT Hozier song, namely Sedated. We are branching out here folks.


	4. Like Jonah On The Ocean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When will the part of the story where Dirk and Roxy meet up finally come? We're not quite sure, but the boys are about to take a detour. Other things will be coming, pun intended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! Happy fall!! I'm so glad I had some time to work on this between school and other commitments. Warnings in the endnotes for this one; we are entering into exciting, avant-garde kink territory.

You have been walking across the ocean for what feels like fucking hours. As far as you’re concerned, your legs are about to melt into jelly. Each step the oil-slick water seems to cling more closely to your feet, pulling against you like molasses as you try to carry on.

How did you find yourself in this situation? You had a convo with Roxy that went a little something like this:

timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering tipsyGnostalgic [TG]

TG: hey stridepod  
TG: uhhh  
TG: so  
TG: weird news  
TG: i was walkin along the ravine  
TG: and i saw this big kinda mass in the distance and i thought idk what that is but its probably irrelevant u kno  
TG: so it turns out  
TG: its the ocean  
TT: What?  
TT: That makes no geographic sense.  
TT: You couldn’t have possibly walked to the ocean.  
TG: well i kno that dirky  
TG: i have a degree in fuckgin geography u smartass  
TG: but i am telling u  
TG: i am lookin at the gots damn ocean  
TT: Fuck.  
TT: I guess I just have to cross the ravine then, don’t I.  
TT: Whimsical magic hotrod could probably help, come to think of it.

“Mighty look of consternation you’re wearing there, dear,” he mutters under his breath just loud enough so you can hear.

“You know that friend I’ve been trying to reach?”

“Yes of course,” he nods, “the one you’ve been terribly mysterious about.”

“I didn’t mean to be mysterious about her. Her name’s Roxy and she’s my cousin. Anyway, she just ran into the ocean.”

“Mmm. The ocean does seem to be cropping up in a lot of places,” he notes geniusly.

TG: r u asking him?  
TG: lemme kno how it goes  
TT: So far he’s said:  
TT: “Hm yes the ocean does seem to be cropping up in a lot of places.”  
TG: hahaha holy shit this guy is some kind of weird prophet  
TT: Nah he’s definitely not that.

“Oh, speak of the devil!”

You reach the crest of a large purple hill and Jake points below you. Sure enough, there it is. The fucking ocean.

“You have got to be kidding me. You just conjured that up.”

“No I didn’t! Why would I have any reason to do that?”

You grunt in response.

TT: Fucking.  
TT: Update, we found the ocean too.  
TG: lmao oh my gods  
TG: somebody is playin us so hard right now  
TG: one of those bitches up there

“Well, now how far away is your friend?”

“I have no fucking idea. We should have reached each other by now based on every map I’ve ever seen, but I haven’t even run into this huge crack in the earth she’s been on about.”

“Okay… are you prepared to trust me on something?”

You hesitate. “No, dude. Absolutely fucking not.”

“Don’t be that way. Do you remember how I explained… that I walked across the ocean?”

“No! I don’t remember you explaining shit! Everything in my recent memory at all, actually, consists of you doing unexplainable bullshit.”

He makes a pouty face. “Name one unexplainable thing I’ve done.”

“Oh, I don’t know. How about the fact that you sent me into a flashback played out completely in English even though I’m pretty sure you don’t fucking speak it?”

“I-I do speak English! You are making blatant assumptions.”

You sigh, rubbing a hand down your face. “Okay. Fuck. Just explain the ocean thing.”

“Well…”

Something about temporal mechanics, wormholes and leapholes and antigravity. You didn’t understand a word he fucking said. The principal fact of the matter was that the ocean was now viscous enough to be walked upon, polluted with rainbow-shifting oils from some unidentified apocalyptic source. Probably something from his damn island, honestly.

He said you would reach your friend in record time if you crossed it. At this point you’re starting to spin wild conspiracy theories along the lines of The Matrix or even Dark City, so you don’t have much to lose.

This is how you find yourself now three steps away from collapse in the middle of the sea. Jake plodds ahead of you, oblivious to your struggle.

“Dude,” you pant, “I don’t understand how the fuck you apparently walked across all this alone. Can we… sit down for a bit? Is that even possible, or will we sink?”

He stops to look back and doesn’t seem the least bit winded. He cocks his head at you like he never considered the possibility of exhaustion, in any situation, until now. “Sure we can sit down. I wouldn’t want to push your limits.”

“Yes you would,” you grunt, leaning against him as you come to a halt.

“Here,” he offers, “how’s about I whip us up some seating? A nice bench or something on which to rest our tushes?”

“You can just fucking, conjure benches out of the ocean?”

“Well, yes,” he laughs. “I can conjure a lot more than benches...”

“Make me something nice, then,” you whine. “A classical bathhouse, so I can wash off all this fucking salt and finally enact my fantasy of living on an ancient Greek island.”

“Hmmm,” he hums, “I’ll see what I can do. Will you push forward just for a moment with me, and I’ll think of something good while we’re completing the final stretch?”

“Fuck,” you groan, “are you serious? I literally cannot walk any more.”

“Endurance, peach! It’s uhm, a hiking thing. Do a little more than you think you can!”

“For all your random, highly specific knowledge, I somehow don’t believe that you know about hiking lingo.”

Jake provides no further comment, but tugs you along by the arm. You guess you can go a little further before you up and die.

You walk in silence for a few minutes. You busy yourself thinking about the shifting patterns of the water beneath your feet and trying desperately to ignore the burn of your calves.

Then, a few paces away from you, a marble tomb arises spontaneously from the ocean. Damn.

It’s a huge beast of a monument, delicately engraved and flanked by two triptychs that might possibly be faux altarpieces. It’s too far to make out the details, but the whole production is certainly _not_ prechristian.

You stop walking to consider it. “Jake,” you sigh, “I requested classical.”

“Come on,” he pouts, “it’s Renaissance! Do you not appreciate the imitation? Second degree memesis?”

You are about to dissolve into a puddle of bones, but dammit if you won’t argue about memesis. “Altarpieces, to my knowledge, are not a classical imitation. Actually they are one of the most well-studied extremely fucking medieval things that lasted well into the-”

“Well, consarn it, what did you want me to make you, a nude figure with a gigantic horizontal disc on its head that we could fuck atop? The damn temple at Olympus? What archaic structure would tickle your fancy?”

“There were _Aegean island nations_ , Jake. People conflate Minoan Crete with _Atlantis_. You could have made me a sea castle.”

“Again, castles. You’re talking about castles here.”

“What, you can’t make me an elegant palace?”

“Oh,” he leans over, bringing his chin close to yours, “I’ll make _you_ a palace. A temple, even.”

Oh, you get it. It’s like, he’s going to make your asshole a temple by worhipping it fucking raw. _Nice._ As a reward for that extremely erotic turn of phrase, you shiver against him and press your lips into his neck. Suddenly you feel your fatigue ebbing away. Sex is like coffee.

“Hahah, you liked that!” he snorts. Before you can protest, he picks you up bridal-style and starts carrying you across the sea toward the now fully-risen tomb.

A tomb is more his style than a palace, honestly. You don’t know why this recurrence of his death-fetish surprised you. Half-heartedly, you consider some metaphors about sea foam and murder and aphrodite and genitals.

“Hey Jake,” you mutter. “Are you Uranus? Because I want your dick to bring me to life.”

Jake nearly drops you into the oil-slick water laughing.

As you approach the tomb, you recognize the triptychs as generally Renaissance in their style. The outermost panels feature hunched over Marys with tiny swaddled Jesuses, as one would expect. The largest middlemost panels show some kind of raucous bacchus with his little satyr buddies, clearly having a good romp within the constraints of the border. The tomb itself features an intricate figural frieze running along all four sides. The top is obviously flat and smooth, because that’s where you’re going to be doing the fucking.

“I gotta say,” you mutter as he places you ass-first on the marble, dropping your sword and bag, “your third-degree memesis is pretty convincing here.”

“I’m not sure I agree with the degree you’ve defined, but I don’t want to argue about platonic ideals or whatever you intellectual fops like to call them, because I am far too eager to fuck you into this rock!”

With that he climbs on top of you and kisses you hard, sucking at your lip with the kind of force meant to take your breath away. His hands roam up your sides and down your hips, which you’re already jerking into him with considerable force.

He’s so fluid with you that you can just rush into it like this without any of the awkwardness you used to encounter during your limited collegiate sexcapades. It’s like, one minute you’re upright and the next minute you’re horizontal writhing under his palms. He roams down your chest, pulling at your waistband and signaling for you to take your pants off already.

“Holy shit,” you say, squeezing your legs to better remove your boxers, “are you actually going to put your dick in me this time?”

He almost laughs, breathing hot against your forehead. “If you can’t wait any longer, then I can indeed stick my willy up your nilly.”

“Not if you say it like that,” you choke, nearly hitting your head against the marble. It’s freezing and not the least bit comfortable, but the concept is sexy enough for you not to give a shit.

Jake leans over to dip his hand in the ocean. Then, like it’s no big deal, he slathers his dick with the goopy, salty oil-water.

“What the _fuck_. No, you are _not_ putting that inside of me.” His dick radiates pink to you, brighter than the faint glow of the ocean surface.

“Relax. It’s perfectly safe. Besides, there’s nothing else around, unless you want me to stick it in dry.”

“Jesus,” you gulp, your chest heaving. “If I die from magical dysentery after this, your conscious will be plagued for life.”

“Fully willing to accept that risk.”

You nod painfully, tilting your head away from the sticky pink beacon that is his penis. You’ll stop feeling weird about it when he puts it in, you bet.

And oh shit, does he put it in. He doesn’t even prep you, just takes a moment to line himself up and pushes in.

“O-Oh, fuck, _fuck_ ,” you moan, your voice breaking.

“Dirk. Oh, it’s lovely.”

He wastes no time sliding himself all the way in, making you squirm against the marble when he hits your prostate. He starts moving slowly, then, just barely rotating his hips—and then within a matter of thrusts he starts slamming into you.

“Fuck, Dirk, I’m gonna—” he moans, gripping your hips tighter.

“Christ, already?” Your vocal chords are barely working at this point, and your eyes are most certainly in the back of your head.

Jake’s voice catches and his hips stutter. Something hot spills into you, much hotter than you remember come ever feeling. That was… uncharacteristically fast, all things considered, and fuck you _need_ him to keep pouding into you. Fuck. You’re about to start jerking yourself off to finish, but Jake doesn’t pull out; in fact, he starts moving again.

“Wha—” you briefly question before he hits you at an incredible fucking angle and your words devolve into moans.

“Don’t worry about me,” he groans. “I’m going to have some fun with you. See how long you can last.”

“We’re going to be here for a while, then?” you pant, teetering on the edge of orgasm.

“I hope to be!”

“Can I get experimental?” you ask, your neck arched.

“Only if I can as well!”

You nod in response and close your eyes, painting behind your eyelids an image of the feeling of Jake fucking you. It’s fucking lovely and you don’t want to lose it, and you wish he was jackhammering you into oblivion again, so you hope to conjure up something in that vein.

You’re aiming for a form more suitable to a sex montage, something poetic and fluid and capable of stringing together long hours of memory without the specificity of prose. You paint an image of Jake fucking you, Jake filling you up with himself and anything else he can find.

Starting with Jake fucking you on a marble tomb in the middle of the ocean filling you up with himself and anything else he can find; Jake fucking you against a rock in the Triassic jungle filling you up with reedy vines; Jake fucking you against the dusty ground and touching you like a matchbox he’s trying to light.

Jake fucking you in a Minoan temple while the frescoes dance and your vision swims; Jake fucking you atop a gothic spire while the wind whips your hair into curls and the stone temples your back into an arch; Jake fucking you underneath a glass observatory while the stars fall and the air closes your lungs; Jake fucking you between a brick wall and a pile of gunpowder while the shots outside richochet through fleshy organs and flimsy red jackets.

Jake fucking you in your college dorm; Jake fucking you in your college shower; Jake fucking you in your apartment against a wall; Jake fucking you in your aparment against your desk; Jake fucking you in your apartment in bed in the middle of the night when you can’t quite sleep; Jake cooking breakfast in your apartment in the early morning when you can’t quite wake up; Jake taking you down the street in the afternoon when the cars sporadically grace your neighborhood and the pavement doesnt crack and sink like super mario platforms and the birds make noise and the dogs make noise and the porches are filled with empty space but ocasionally people. Jake fucking you on a marble tomb in the middle of the ocean and you filling yourself with him and anything else you can imagine and painting an image of Jake fucking you on a marble tomb in the middle of the ocean and filling yourself with him and anything else you can find.

Jake is fucking you on a marble tomb in the middle of the ocean and you don’t know how much noise you’ve been making, but it was probably a lot.

His hips sutter again and he takes a shaky breath with some finality to it. You feel even more exhausted now, even more than after all that walking, trembling and sweaty and absolutely _full_ of something unbearably warm.

Oh. Oh, that’s not a poetic sensation. It’s a real one.

You attempt to sit up on your elbows, but sink back down into the unwelcoming marble. “Shit,” you moan, “what did you do?”

“You said you wanted me to fill you up with myself and anything else I could find,” he gasps, still inside of you but motionless and panting now.

“Oh, Gods,” you whine, bringing a hand to your stomach. It’s hot to the touch, swollen painfully with Jake’s… whatever he put in you. “That’s new. Fuck, it feels tight.”

Jake giggles. “Mayhaps. But you, my dear, are not. Let me just…”

Without warning he hoists your knees up further on his shoulders, causing the contents deposited inside you to slosh painfully. You yelp loudly in protest.

“Fuck,” you wince, closing your eyes and bringing one hand up to support your back. Jake pulls out of you slowly, but not slowly enough to keep you from moaning obscenely. Then he fits something hard and cold back into you. The way it stretches you as it goes in feels awfully familiar.

“Is that a plug?”

“Mhm,” Jake murmurs. “Wouldn’t want you to get rid of it all so fast, now. Need help sitting up?”

“Yeah…” you groan, trailing off with a grunt as jake takes your hands and helps you up onto your ass. The plug shifts as you sit, which feels fucking _amazing_. The hot liquid inside of you also shifts, rounding out the bottom of your stomach almost cartoonishly.

“So, what is this?” you manage to ask, rubbing your stomach with one hand to ease the bloated feeling.

“I don’t want to spoil it!” Jake exclaims. “You’ll have to wait until I deem it proper time to take out the stopper.”

He brings both of his hands to your stomach now and rubs in slow circles, putting on just a little more pressure than you would prefer. But you let him touch you, because it feels fantastic in comparison to sitting with your heavy midsection straining against your spine unaided. Even after a good couple minutes sitting and cooing at him as he rubs circles into you, your abdomen is still feverishly hot to the touch.

“Is this like… a Virgin Mary motif or something? Is that why you’re into this?”

Jake sputters and covers his mouth to laugh. “Certainly not! I mean, you’re hardly a virgin. She’s not even pregnant in most Renaissance madonna and child depictions, Dirk, really.”

“Okay, yeah, soooo sorry my Marian iconographical history isn’t up to par. In my defense you did just fuck me senseless for an indeterminable amount of time and pump me to bursting with a secret molten liquid, so I’m kinda out of it.”

Jake giggles, patting your stomach. “You’re the one who’s into this. Your poem used the word ‘full’ way too many times for me not to pick up on a latent kink or two. Also, all bottoms have a bit of an interest in come inflation.”

Your stomach bubbles uncomfortably when you laugh. “Fuck you. You’re right, but fuck you.”

Jake nuzzles into your neck, and you stay resting against each other for a little while. You focus on the sensation of being full of him, being stuffed dizzy with his red-hot _something_. Eventually you nudge his shoulder, though.

“Hey, can I take this plug out already so we can take a fucking nap?”

“You could nap with it in,” Jake pouts. When you give him a judgemental glare, he concedes, “Okay, yes, you may remove the cork.”

Swinging your legs over the side of the tomb and scooching your ass so you can reach under your legs, you slowly pull out the plug. It’s made of smoky quartz or some bullshit, you think—but you can hardly see the material underneath, because the entire thing is coated in a layer of sticky-hot gold leaf.

Gold pours out of you. It runs down the side of the tomb and into the sea, forming a metallic little river among the glittering oil rainbows. You moan as it drains out of you, massaging your stomach to push it out faster.

“What the fuck,” you gasp, “that’s beautiful.”

“I know,” Jake murmurs. Once you’re sufficiently emptied he pulls you back down onto the marble, which feels suspiciously more plush and welcoming now, almost like some kind of mattress. Your eyes droop upon impact and soon you drift off to sleep in a puddle of gold.

* * *

You sleep for an indeterminable amount of time. When you wake you feel fully goddamn rested for once, so you suspect Jake worked some reality-bending magic on you. Either that or the gold stuff was drugged with restfulness juice.

“It’s bright,” you groan. The sun is magenta this morning, and the way it mixes with the pink glow of the sea clouds your vision.

Your back makes a sound like ripping tape when you sit up, your skin peeling away reluctantly from the sticky marble. Jake is passed out on top of you with one arm tossed over your crotch. Your pants are nowhere in sight. It is fucking _hot_ out- you’ve sweated through your shirt, and your skin burns all over.

“Nghhhhmmg,” says Jake. His nose pokes into your hip bone.

“Wake up. We have ground to cover.”

“Not ground,” he mutters.

“You know what I mean.”

He slowly removes himself from your legs, allowing you to unstick them from the rock and swing them over the tomb. All traces of gold are gone now from the water. You do at least find your boxers, and you pull them on sleepily.

“Dirk,” Jake starts, placing a hand on your back. “Dirk good golly, you look like a strawberry.”

“Huh?”

“You’re sunburnt all over!”

Fuck. No wonder your skin feels like it’s on fire. Sure enough your forearms are burnt from the wrist up. You’re thoroughly toasted on the entire front side of your fucking body, including your thighs. Your eyes start to water from the sting.

“Ow, holy shit. Do you have any- healing magic? Anything like that?”

“Uhm,” Jake gulps. You can tell he’s stifling laughter. “Never tried it before. Don’t think it would be a good idea.”

You curse under your breath, lying back down to press your cheek against the marble.

“I do have another idea to cool you down…”

“Then hit me with it, fuck, don’t leave me hanging like a flaming sheet out in the goddamn breeze—”

And he pushes you into the ocean. Face first into the fucking ocean, all sticky and pink and syrupy. It doesn’t hurt when you land, and it’s much colder than the marble which is admittedly very nice, but you’re soaked now in…. slippery goop.

“What the fuck was that for?” you shout over at him, picking yourself up.

Jake is laughing his ass off at you. “It’s cold, right?”

“Yeah. And it’s disgusting, and all over me.”

“Come on peach,” he giggles, grabbing your belongings and hopping down from the tomb. “Let’s get a move on.”

You scowl wordlessly as the tomb retreats into the ocean, altarpieces and all. Jake pulls you along by the arm and you reluctantly follow.

“Hey, where the fuck did my shades go?”

He shrugs. “We must’ve lost them at some point.”

You still have your sword and your bag, but there’s no sign of your eyewear. Of all the times you’ve needed a pair of sunglasses, none have been as dire as this one. You squint against the magenta as best you can.

“Can’t you make me a new pair?”

“I don’t exactly remember what they look like.”

“Bullshit. I’ll draw you a picture or something.”

“Look,” Jake stammers. He seems nervous. “There’s nothing I can do about them. You were evidently supposed to lose them whenever you did.”

“What the _fuck_ does that _mean_? I hate this ineffable fate bullshit you always pull. I’ve studied too much philosophy to buy into that crap.”

“It’s not fate, it’s just—there are places where I am limited and this is one of them.”

“But you could make dinosaurs.”

“I can neither confirm nor deny that statement. But I can’t make your glasses, Dirk, I’m sorry.”

“Right. Sure. Of course. Obviously. I bet you can’t make the world go back to normal then, can you? That’s outside your limitations?”

He stops and spins to glare at you. “If I could make the world go back to normal I would have bloody done it.”

“I don’t know,” you taunt, “would you? It seems to me like you _love_ this batshit fantasy dystopia playspace. Like you were built to survive in it.”

“You are accusing me of things and I don’t like it one bit!”

“Well your voice wouldn’t be jumping so many octaves if you weren’t at least a little bit guilty, would it?”

Jake looks furious with you. It’s kind of sexy, but mostly terrifying.

“I am not guilty! I haven’t done anything wrong!”

“I can change the way the story works too, you know. I bet I could fuck with things until you answered me.”

u/u/u/u/.

“I don’t know what you’re looking for.”

“Yes you do, man.”

u/u/u/u/u/--u/u/u/u/u--u/u/u/u/u/?

“I don’t know what the answer you desire--” he stops, looks confused, then starts again. “I haven’t any clue what question--are you making me talk in fricking verse?”

“Tell me or I’m going to make you talk in dactyls.”

/uu/uu/uu/uu. /uu/uu

“Dirk I don’t know what you’re getting at please just stop. Stop with this ornery--”

“How did the world end, Jake?”

He seems to glow emerald. You’re afraid he’ll whisk you into the ocean with his mind and drown you there, and you would probably deserve it.

“That is none of your flipping business!!!”

…

The sky dulls. Some great whirring ceases, a whirring you never noticed before, but now that it’s gone the world is eerily fucking quiet. Like something died. You feel chills.

The emerald glow drops from around Jake and his eyes widen. He gulps and puts a hand over his mouth.

“What happened?” you try to ask. “I mean, fuck, wh…”

“Los gran generadores…” he mutters through his fingers.

Oh, shit. “I can’t… I can’t remember any of the words. Fuck, Jake.”

You stare at each other in silence, your skin still burning, your hair still dripping magenta, and your hands releasing the fists they had clenched.

Jake looks panicked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Art History lingo, use of a dubious magical substance as lubricant, penetrative sex, (magical) come inflation, plugs, sex marathon prose poem thingy, heated argument, scansion. 
> 
> This was such a treat to write. The weird magic oil-ocean was one of my first concepts for the fic, so I'm glad we finally made it there! As always, the chapter title is from a Hozier song (this time, Movement).
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed! Keep your eyes peeled for the next chapter!


End file.
